The Facade
by thecagedstarkdove
Summary: All of that was too far from reach, too far out of the range of possibility. But Skeeter, Skeeter had a book full of blank pages. Hilly's book was already written for her. AUTHORS NOTE: Updating my story from a new account.
1. Authors Note

**Authors Note:**

**I know that this is a different account, but rest assured, I am the same author. A tragedy occurred and I cannot recollect the email I used when The Facade was first posted.**

**I should have updated sooner, that much is obvious. All you little Hilly geeks wishing to know how her downtrodden life can only all further.**

**Well, here it is.**

**Tonight, I hope to update chapter two**


	2. The Facade

She lay on their bed, one arm outstretched while the other crossed over her stomach. Idly she ran her hand over silken white sheets, the material running smoothly underneath the pads of her fingers. A shaky sigh tumbled from her lips as her eyes fluttered shut, closing out the visible world. Everything was enveloped into darkness and she let her mind wander.

Her life wasn't anything to be proud of. It only consisted of lies upon lies.

Once upon a time she had been able to deal with that. Deal with how her husband never really loved her. Deal with being the fake woman everybody knew her to be. But lately she had grown tired and it was taking a great deal more effort to play into the social norms. If she strayed from the status quo people would begin to talk, and Hilly Holbrook did not like to be talked about. So, she played along, like usual. Attending all of Elizabeth's get togethers, gossiping with the women in the League. But everything in her life just seemed to drone on. The only bright spots were her two children. But William had taken Willy Junior and Heather out and she was left at home, alone.

Hilly knew that she should be getting dinner ready. Everything had to be prepared for when her family returned. But she was reluctant to do so and instead opted to lay motionless in the bed.

Skeeter. Her friend, well, she could hardly be called that now. But still, she was the only one who seemed to be free of this tedious life. Skeeter's whole world on the colorful side of the spectrum. It was enticing and enviable. Skeeter had no husband to tend to, no children to look after, no clique that thought she was somebody that she wasn't. Skeeter was bold and never took shit from anybody, including Hilly. She stood up for what she believed in. Hilly admitted, albeit in her head, that she wanted that life herself. She wanted to be something as limitless as a writer, an artist with words. She wanted to be able to live alone. She wanted to fall in love again.

Was it so wrong to want to run away and never look back? She would do anything to just be able to flee from Jackson and start a new life somewhere else (California?).But all of that was too far from reach, too far out of the range of possibility. But Skeeter, Skeeter had a book full of blank pages. Hilly's book was already written for her.

Reluctantly she sat up, letting her feet hang over the side of the mattress, toes brushing against the hardwood on her bedroom floor. She needed to get ready, needed to cook. William would be disappointed if she didn't have anything prepared for him. Standing up Hilly took a few strides to the bedroom door and pulled it open before disappearing into the hall.

_~What do you guys think? Should I leave it alone or start to add in chapters? Please review_


	3. The Proposal

**Authors Note: This has taken me far too long, I know. Hopefully you guys appreciate it. Certain songs remind me of this movie, of this woman, and the need to write itches at my fingertips. Please, review. Tell me your thoughts. I want to know what you all are thinking.**

She could feel the soft tick, the cool metal of the watch strapped loosely around her wrist. It read 6:53 a.m, but the watch on her wrist was slow. It always seemed to stunt her activities of the day. Late at doing this, delayed for that. Yet, she never could find the time to turn that little knob, correct the hands so that it read properly. Why fix something when being late to her hair appointment, or the ever so exciting League meeting, was such a thrill? A thrill, how pitiable. Why should being tardy to meet her bad humored and daft friends cause any sort of a charge? She glared down at that damned watch, brows furrowing and full lips pulling into a tight line. Since when did such small, meaningless material items become so thought provoking? Was there something mentally wrong with her? Was her life so meager that a watch should cause insight?

Mindlessly, Hilly sipped at her coffee and cursed lightly at it for losing it's warmth. Teal colored eyes flickered over the paper which was laid out neatly across the dining table. She had picked it up from the porch just moments before. The pages smelt fresh and the words begged to be read. She knew that she needed to keep up on events. The daily drama was always a heavy discussion over Bridge. Still, her laden heart didn't want to commit to idiotic stories. They always seemed to drag, anyway. Instead, Hillary Holbrook found herself flipping to the _Cleaning Advice_ section of the paper. Why she did this, she couldn't say. It seemed to be some inner tug; a curiosity to know. But as soon as she got there, Miss Holbrook closed the pages hurriedly.

With a shaky hand, she brought the cool rim of the mug up to rest against her mouth. She didn't sip, only pondered. Why should she be frightened to read something so simple? It wasn't as if it were an announcement that would effect the outcome of her life. No, but Eugenia had written it, hadn't she? Hilly, after all, had been there when her friend had announced that she had gotten the job. _A job_ writing for the Jackson Journal. It was proof of Skeeter's presence, that her friend was actually here, back home. It bothered her, to think about Eugenia and her job. A job. The word seemed so masculine. And the fact that Skeeter actually had one, well, that just screamed of her strange ways, her ideals and opinions which clashed so violently with Hilly's own. Skeeter, the escapee, the mouse which had turned it's nose away from the trap, from her trap. Hilly swallowed thickly and felt the corners of her eyes sting. Best friends from the beginning, torn away by clashing views and her own unwillingness to move. She was resilient by default and took pride in going her own way, living by her own rules. But when thinking about Skeeter, she couldn't help but feel a heavy weight pressed to her chest. All of her friends, lackeys more like it, were dull. But that was the way she liked them, wasn't it? So willing to commit to her ideas, her preferences.

Hilly brushed her hand over the smooth exterior of the newspaper and set her mug down on the table. Her heart was thudding violently against her chest and nervously she pushed away from her chair and made her way to the hallway. Wide eyed and curious, she looked up the stairway. Her ears strained, searching for any sound, any hint of a child's restlessness or the knowing grunt of a husband rising from sleep. After making sure that there were no noises to be heard, other than the flutter of her own breath, Hilly turned and walked towards the phone.

She looked at for a moment as if the plastic communication device were something sinister, something to be feared, something to keep away from. Ignoring the ever so persistent nagging in her head, Hilly took a step forward and boldly grasped the telephone. She took it off the hook, listened for the static and pressed it roughly against her ear. Hopefully, the voice on the other end would be muffled enough and wouldn't carry through the entirety of her home.

Leaning forward, Hilly rested her forehead against the wall and reached to the side, fumbling a bit as she counted holes and dialed the correct number. Under her breath, she prayed that nobody would answer other than the voice she so viciously longed to hear. It was eating her away, tugging at the strings of her heart. The thought of communication was sickening, but the need to listen to_ her_ breathing, to hear _her_ voice was too much to bear.

Hilly brushed it off nonchalantly as the kind of longing you felt when you haven't seen your sibling or good friend for a very long time. But the dark, sinful part of her heart spoke of something more. Lovesickness. It was a deathly trap, one that she had been sucked into as a very young and confused girl. Yet here it was, that same feeling, rearing it's ugly head once again. Laughable and pathetic.

A raspy voice suddenly sounded from the other end of the line. Hilly gaped for a moment at the abruptness before muttering, "Skeeter, it's Hilly." There was mumbling from the other woman and Hilly found herself smiling at the familiarity of the moment. It was as if they were girls again, talking in hushed voices because they didn't want their parents to listen in on all of their _important_ conversations.

"Hilly, it's too early for this," a whisper of a pause, "and you could have woken my mother." She sounded sleepy and Hilly's imagination began to wander. The image of Skeeter, hair messy from a pillow, eyes squinting to see, lips parted as long breaths slowly filled her lungs. It was something she had grown used to seeing. A result from countless sleepovers, nights which wore into days, days which turned to months, months which became years. Hilly thought for a moment of years recent. So pointless. The seemed so thin.

"I know it's early, but I won't be able to talk once William wakes up," she argued lightly and heard a knowing grunt from Skeeter's end. "Listen, I'll make this quick. I want to see you." Her heart flipped in her chest, making her feel uneasy with nausea. "Come by later in the afternoon. William will be at work and the kids will be taking their nap," Hilly said flippantly and tossed her wrist in an uncaring fashion, as if this wasn't a big deal.

She could sense Skeeter's hesitance and gnawed at her lower lip in anticipation. Without really knowing it, Hilly wound the phone chord around her index finger. Her head was turned to the side, flaming locks, which needed to be curled, brushed against pale, thin shoulders. If a person were to look in on the scene, they would surely be fooled. A grown woman, age 23. To an onlooker she would have appeared years younger. A girl, hopeful as she talked to somebody on the other end, a boy of interest perhaps, or maybe even a boyfriend. This, however, was not the case. She was hopeful, yes, giddy, sure. But this wasn't a boy she was speaking to and this wasn't a typical conversation. It was an invitation, to another woman, to come over when her husband wasn't home. Their history, their closeness, the entirety of their backstory was coming into play, into factor. And when Eugenia Phelan whispered, "I'll be there", the lines had been drawn.


End file.
